Unlike the Other
by BekCholie
Summary: For better or worse, they're twins. Sometimes it sucks. They say Isabel has a heart, and Hamish is just like his father. But it's not quite like that. Parent!Lock, AU, Some Johnlock but not much. Rate T for language
1. Prologue

_**A/N: Duh duh duh duh! And here it is: the prologue for the new story. **_

_**Enjoy. **_

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"_We can but try."_

-The Problem of Thor Bridge by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

When all else fails, you call Sherlock Holmes.

But, sometimes, that isn't an option.

Like when you're Hamish or Isabel Watson-Holmes.

Then you call John Watson.

But this time, they couldn't do that.

"We are _so _screwed."

"Dad's gonna kill me."

"You just had to go and be a smart-ass, didn't you? Had to prove you could figure the whole damn thing out."

"Oh, quit cursing at me. In case you haven't noticed- I'm in the same rut as you."

"Thanks to _you_."

This drew silence from the two and they considered their options.

Hamish wondered if things might be different if his best friend was with him to back him up, rather than his sister.

Isabel wondered how long it would take for Father to find them.

Hamish wondered if their captor had thought through every angle of his plan- though Hamish did doubt it.

Isabel wondered if Dad would make it on time- Father did say that he was never late to save him, even from the very first case.

They both wondered how long it would take to die.


	2. Sherlock's Son

_**A/N: **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

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"_Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her."_

-The Valley of Fear by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

_*FIVE YEARS EARLIER*_

The young Watson-Holmes brushed his thick black curls back from his face and observed his classmates- or at least, what there was to observe of them. The boy often found people to be so…

Boring.

_People aren't boring, Hamish. _The voice of his dad popped in. _Honestly, you're getting to sound more like your father every day. _

Not that it was his fault.

Psychologically and physically, Hamish appeared to exhibit eighty to ninety percent of his father's (and if you counted her- which Hamish didn't- his "surrogate" mother) genes, and the occasional twenty to ten percent of his dad's. Biologically, he was a half and half mix of both of them, but was scowled at for looking like a younger version of his father.

Still not his fault.

And still boring.

Girl to his left:

_Been to this school many years, judging by the lack of interest and the body language of familiarity- most likely five considering her interaction with the boy across from her and her warm smile with the teacher (who started teaching five years ago). Hand-me-down clothes from an older sister who also attended this school, based on the worn down sleeves on the uniform shirt and the loose threads on the mandatory emblem; also indicates lack of financial security for new uniform. Father walked out when she was young; dirt smudges indicate labor and caring for younger brothers-stay at home parent is too busy to attend to these tasks, but the lunch was just opened indicating that the girl has no knowledge of what's in the lunch: someone has made the lunch for her…_

And so the ramblings continued.

Hamish stifled a sigh and glared at the chalk board. _Oh, not again._ Grammar rules about _there, their_, and _they're_? Just in the first twenty minutes of Miss Madison's soliloquy, Hamish understood everything he needed to know, and more than he wanted to know, about the three words.

But they had to go over it for an hour.

Every day.

For one week.

Sure, this was a good time to practice deductions like his father, but there were only so many that one could make in this small room. It got very boring after a while.

Hamish turned his attention to a girl across the room, Isabel. He cocked his head to the right and she did the same. She grimaced and he returned the same notion.

Oh yes. They were in agreement.

This was very boring.


	3. John's Daughter

_**A/N: **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

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"_The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."_

-The Adventure of the Copper Beeches by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Isabel grimaced.

While she didn't get anywhere near as bored as Hamish, she herself had to admit that Miss Madison's class was as boring as Uncle Mycroft's weekly visits.

Isabel shuddered at the thought.

_Oh the horror_.

Isabel let her fair hair pool around her as she buried her face into her arms on the desk to hide from the English lesson.

You'd think that Isabel, a writer at heart like her dad, would love English class. But that wasn't the case. English was grammar, and Isabel would rather read and learn from experience than listen to this dull discourse drag on.

What was worse were the math and science courses to come. Isabel despised the class even more with every waking hour that passed.

And lunch and break were not much better themselves. Isabel couldn't stand the other girls, though outwardly she hid it unlike her brother, and remained gentle and kind in their eyes, though shy and nowhere near a threat. Isabel avoided their cattiness and allowed them to fight over boys without her- they may all be nine, but that didn't change their attitude about boys.

It was only with history and music class (though the latter only came twice a week) that Isabel's day perked up. Isabel had a knack for remembering each and every date mentioned and their importance, and unlike her brother, did not use her unusual ability to delete information on this course. Rarely did Isabel use it at all.

Not to mention, that the music teacher, Mr. Kaye, adored her from the moment that Isabel had walked in four years ago on the first day of school and arrogantly picked up an old beat up violin in the corner and, though an amateur and the bow screeched across the out-of-tune strings, she was able to repeat a section from one of her father's pieces- her favorite in fact, and what Hamish and John had figured to be Sherlock's as well.

Since then, Mr. Kaye had held her in favor over the other students and gave her the first pick at any songs for a Parents' Appreciation Concert held by the students. And Isabel used this in her favor. A little "bribing" here and there, any another student could decide which song would be sung by their class- of course it wasn't bribing if Isabel hinted to the rest the price another student would pay for a song and practically force someone else to top that.

Manipulative by a fault- a curse in the Holmes gene, but also blessing.


	4. Lestrade

_**A/N: Can you recognize the described person in the quote?**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

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"_Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind."_

-The Bruce-Partington Plans by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Isabel and Hamish walked beside each other on the way to the Yard. Dad had been furious that Father wouldn't pick up the kids- especially when he was on a case- from school.

Father told them to walk home, they had perfectly good feet.

Dad was busy working and couldn't get away from the hospital early enough to pick them up or walk them home, so eventually their parents compromised. The kids would walk to the Yard and wait for Father or Lestrade there, and get taken home after that.

Father had agreed to this for few reasons, but both the children were aware that a majority of them included how much Anderson and Donovan hated the Watson-Holmes', or the annoyance the children brought with their superior mindset, as Father put it mildly.

Hamish relished in the fact.

Isabel didn't care.

But the twins walked in silence on the way, no need to talk. What could Isabel say Hamish didn't already deduce? What could Hamish mention that wouldn't bore Isabel? No, silence treated the two far better, and they dived into the security of their own minds.

When the two reached the Yard, the pair were waved through- a routine, the Watson-Holmes' no longer need to be signed in- and immediately headed to D.I. Lestrade's desk. Isabel hopped up on to the surface and dumped her backpack on the ground at her feet and opted to pull out a book from the DI's desk- _Greg's recently gotten a load of new cases. This book was sold to him a week ago according to the receipt in the middle of the book, untouched, because he hasn't had time to read this. Not to mention the paperwork shoved in the left hand drawer indicating reluctance to work on any necessary filing, since something else is on his mind_. Hamish snooped through the files on his computer, opening the occasional file- _Huh; Donovan's applying for a new restraining order on Anderson. The (on-again-off-again) affair must have ended. Or Anderson got back together with his ex-wife. Possibly both.- _and deduced from the contents.

"I'd take it you two are enjoying yourselves," the DI huffed when he arrived and snatched the book out of Isabel's hands and turned off the computer monitor.

Hamish glanced at Isabel with a smirk, and she rolled her eyes. _Gained another two pounds since last week, must be a very stressing case indeed- or two cases. Either way, beyond the competence of average metro police_.

"How's the case going, Greg?" Isabel asked.

"Hit another roadblock?" Hamish grinned.

Greg picked up Isabel's backpack and shoved it into her hands and pulled them away, grumbling about "devious children" and "going to kill Sherlock one of these days."

The twins only enjoyed it more.


	5. Solving

_**A/N: Implied plot and characters from **_**Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Cardboard Box**_** by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

_**Just want to thank the people that have reviewed, faved, and followed so far, now that I'm on my fifth chapter: **_justiceintheworldofhp-yearight, ImaniSechelles, arelando, bowties-and-baskerville, Hanna-Ray-Michael, Laura Beth loves Jesus, WhyHelloThereSir, BegMeTwice, _**and**_lbell107. **_Thank you so much for any support you have provided- especially to_ **justiceintheworldofhp-yearight_**. Thank you so much!**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the show, the books, the movies or the characters of the Sherlock Holmes series. Rights go to their respected owners.**_

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"_There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."_

-The Boscombe Valley Mystery by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"Lestrade!" Donovan screeched. Her gray streaks were coming on quite fast. "Tell the Freak that we do not need him dragging along his _children_ to crime scenes."

Isabel and Hamish snickered and grinned at Donovan. "Good afternoon Sergeant." Hamish bowed majestically in front of her. "I do trust that you are having a marvelous day." With that, Hamish dove under the tape to join Lestrade. Isabel wavered, but nonetheless, followed her brother.

"Sorry Donovan, " Lestrade shrugged. "'Fraid I have to take care of the kids until they get to Sherlock, and after that he still has to solve the case."

Isabel waved at Donovan. "Bye~"

Lestrade led them to the car that their father was standing at. He was examining a wreck and glanced at the children briefly than returned to the crime scene and ducked his head into the driver's seat and touched the dashboard.

"Isabel, you missed a button on your coat. Hamish, take one more step forward and you will contaminate the evidence. Lestrade-" Sherlock looked up at the group, a stunned Isabel who fumbled with her coat buttons, Hamish whose foot hovered over the road where he stood on the sidewalk frozen, and Lestrade who was in front of both of them. "Do tell Anderson that if I have to hear one more sentence about his _'perfectly normal_' children with his perfectly normal _wife_, I will find a way to steal John's gun and shoot him in the knee, and he will be unable to prove it."

Lestrade nodded. "Noted. Now, what can you tell me?"

Sherlock snorted. "Child's play. Hamish?"

The dark haired boy grinned at his father's invitation and scurried down the sidewalk, away from what his father had deemed evidence in the gutter, and inched closer to the wreckage.

"Simple, really. There was a man in the driver's seat here. I suspect the body got tossed forward in the accident, especially so since the front window is broken to bits and the driver wasn't wearing his seat belt and died on his way home- but you would have easily figured that out Greg. No, far too simple. See here, where the blood only is on a few of the broken pieces of glass? Where the man went through. But, ah, here a puddle of blood in the passenger seat. What from? Well, there wasn't another passenger at the time, I assure you. The blood is far older, a few days at the least. I'd say three to five, and it was a head injury based on the size of the amount of blood.

"This accident was merely that, no foul play involved. But there _was_ foul play in this care three to five days ago- more specifically, four days ago as you might remember the package Miss Cushing received the other day." Hamish grinned and astonishment dawned on his sister's face.

"The man killed here was the man who sent the cardboard box with the ears in it."

Hamish nodded. "Exactly. Only one victim's ears, however, was severed here. Not both. I'd suspect Mary Cushing to be the victim of the crime scene here."

Sherlock nodded. "A decent deduction. You missed a few things of course, Hamish, and indulged in a few details not necessary. And you were wrong about two things."

Hamish sighed and Isabel patted his shoulder. "What did I miss this time?"

Sherlock pointed at the blood stain in the passenger seat. "That is not from the disembowelment of Mary Cushing's ears, though this is the man that killed her and her lover. The proof, however, you missed, is in the trunk, not the passenger seat. This is merely a small blood stain from the killer's hands." The consulting detective pointed a few spots. "Smudged, see?"

"And-?"

"Mr. Browner did not die in the accident."

This caused the younger boy to stomp his foot in frustration. "And that was the detail I was most sure about."

Sherlock offered a half smile and patted the boy's curls. "You'll get better with practice, Hamish. You won't be the best at it right away."

Isabel buried her face into her father's coat. "Of course not father_, you're_ the best."

Sherlock hummed. "I suppose. For now. But there is one more thing I want you to do Hamish, for a little bit more practice."

Hamish looked up at his father wearily.

* * *

"Hullo." A meek boy smiled at the man in the ambulance and hopped into the vehicle next to him.

"Hullo," the man replied solemnly, wincing at the sharp pain in his side from speaking.

The boy remained silent for a while and then glanced out at the crime scene. "My daddy says you killed two people. He says you killed your sister-in-law."

The man's face lost a solid mask and he stared at the boy. "Does he now? And who is your father? A police officer."

The boy shook his head. "No, daddy's a civilian. He tells me not to trust the police. They don't trust him." The boy smiled. "But daddy says we can trust sailors, can't we mister?"

The man patted the boy's thick curls. "Of course, a good sailor can surely be trusted."

"Even a sailor that committed a crime?"

The man was silent for a while, but pulled the boy in for a hug. "Yes," he murmured, "if the man was tricked."

The baritone voice cut in. "And you were tricked, weren't you Mr. Browner. By your sister-in-law, Miss Susan Cushing." The man looked up to see an older version of the child he was holding.

"She tried to seduce you, and when you refused to cheat on your wife, her sister, she tricked you and very cunningly told you about your wife's own cheating. Enraged you, and soon your emotions overpowered your logic, and you attacked your _other_ sister-in-law. But your package, which was intended to be delivered to S. Cushing, your wife, was delivered incorrectly to Susan, not Sarah. And she suspected you had killed her sister."

The man in the ambulance wavered, and then broke in to tears. "I didn't know what I was doing," he explained as he tried hastily to wipe the tears from his cheeks. "One minute I'm knocking on Mary's door, and the next she and her boyfriend are dead at my feet and their ears in my hands. I didn't know what to do, so I shoved their bodies into the trunk of my car, and wiped the blood on my hands on the seat next to me, left the ears there. I sent them to Sarah later, but she never told me about receiving a disturbing package, and I knew something went wrong. I knew Sarah didn't live at the house anymore."

Lestrade approached the man. "You are confessing to the murder of Mary Cushing and her boyfriend, then?"

Mr. Browner nodded, and Lestrade placed the cuffs on his wrist while Hamish hopped out of the ambulance.

As the ambulance drove off to the hospital, with Lestrade it, Isabel and Hamish stared at their father.

"Is that man going to be arrested, father?"

"Even though it wasn't his fault?"

Sherlock accepted his daughter's hand. Emotionally and morally, this was a very taxing event, even for a highly-functioning sociopath's daughter. Hamish was not expected to be scarred by the event, but no doubt would not be impressed with Scotland Yard's sense of justice.

"He confessed. Past that, there is not much more the police can do for him, besides give him a hearing if he so chooses."

Isabel sighed. "That sucks."

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose."

"He feels remorse" Hamish supplied. "Regret. That doesn't fit the psychological profile of a double homicide killer, father."

Sherlock pulled his son in close under his arm. "I know Hamish. But that is how normal people's minds work. He is a killer, and that is all most of them see."

"But we don't," Isabel muttered.

Their father said nothing.

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**_A/N: Do you see that box down there? Yeah, right there. Click it, and type in your thoughts on the story. I love reviews :)_  
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	6. Home

_**A/N: Yeah. This chapter. I'm sorry to admit that the argument that they have much represents the one I often have with my own twin (ah, poor Isabel). But, DO NOT BASE YOUR OPINION ON MY CHARACTERIZATION OF JOHN ON THIS SINGLE CHAPTER. He doesn't talk much, so it's vitally important you remember that there are more chapters to come.**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the show, the books, the movies or the characters of the Sherlock Holmes series. Rights go to their respected owners.**_

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"_All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind."_

-A Scandal in Bohemia by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"Home already?" A voice asked from the living room of 221B Baker Street.

The man who had opened the door only hummed, and carried onto the kitchen. Two children made their way to the living room to greet their dad.

"Hullo, Dad" Hamish monotone greeted as he huddled into a corner of the couch and left his backpack dumped in the center of the ground.

"'Afternoon, Dad." Isabel said, giving her father a quick one-shouldered hug, and occupied the other side of the couch and began examining a book from the school library.

"How was school?" John Watson asked, as he typed away on his laptop.

"Boring." Came a joined answer. This drew a sigh from their dad.

Sherlock stepped into the room and started pulling off his scarf and jacket. "Isabel. You need to practice your violin."

Hamish groaned. "Not the god-awful racket. Can't you learn to play something else, like a kazoo?"

Isabel glared at her brother and chucked a pencil at him. "You know, you could benefit from some form of extracurricular activity, Hamish. Honestly, all you care about is a good mystery."

Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled his daughter's violin case from a shelf.

Isabel smiled sheepishly. "Well, it's different for you father- you play violin, and besides, you're a grown man." She turned her hard ice-blue gaze on her brother. "And Hamish-"

John interrupted. "-Needs to do his homework." He stared pointedly at the boy. "I think you ought to step into the kitchen and do your math. I'll be in just a minute to check your work."

Hamish scowled. "Is everybody against me today? First Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson, and now Isabel and my own dad? What is this world coming to?"

Isabel scoffed and took the case from her father. "It's not like that would be anything new to you, Hamish."

"And what of you, 'Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes'?" Hamish retorted. "Kiss up to anybody recently?"

Isabel jumped and pointed her bow at Hamish. "Watch it."

"Oh, honestly. You go around acting to be perfect when I know the truth. You're just as hated as father and I, you're just better at _hiding_ it."

"I am not hated."

"Hamish, Isabel…" John cautioned, but the twins did not stop. Sherlock carried on with shuffling through sheet music and ignored them.

"Oh you are too. Haven't you realized that the other girls don't even _dare_ approach you about their birthdays or a party or any cute boys. It's because they know you're a freak just like me." Hamish spat at her.

Isabel stomped her foot. "They don't bother to because they know I don't care for such silly rubbish."

"Because you're not _normal_."

"Said the pot calling the kettle black!"

"At least I don't try to hid who or _what_ I am."

Sherlock had grown weary at John's futile attempts to appease their offspring and the consistent bickering. _Even worse than Mycroft and I at their age._

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock thundered.

Hamish sat down at the sound of his father's voice and Isabel froze- but her legs and eyes itched to seize the chance to run.

"Hamish- your room _now_. Isabel- go to the kitchen and wait at the table. I don't care what the two of you do afterwards, but neither one of you are to speak or even _look_ at each other until dinner." Their father barked at them, then he himself withdrew from the room leaving a stunned John and the twins to their own devices. After a few seconds hesitation, Isabel and Hamish followed their father's commands and retreated to their designations.

John leaned back in his chair and closed his laptop, leaving the documents and any unfinished work abandoned.

_Just another day at the home of the Watson-Holmes, _John thought bitterly.


	7. Opposites

_**A/N: It kind of drops off at the end. Words stopped forming for me, so I gave up trying after a while. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the show, the books, the movies or the characters of the Sherlock Holmes series. Rights go to their respected owners.**_

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"_The little things are infinitely the most important."_

-A Case of Identity by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Hamish is irritated.

_Of course _he is.

It's not his fault his idiot sister can't just understand why she can't accept who she is.

_She wants to fit in- or at least as much as she can while being on a path to become a socio. So she denies herself the right to delete common information- she takes far too long to ponder over a simple matter like the ways to prove that a man has just pick pocketed a woman three blocks back only twenty minutes before, her head is full of useless information. But she still uses the ability- just the other day she deleted the cab number that Lestrade takes every day when I quizzed her on it. We comment on it _every day.

_So she deletes repetitive information but not useless information. Because she wants to fit in, and she avoids making deductions. Father never makes her make a deduction, but he makes even _Dad_ try to figure out pieces of a mystery Father already solved. _

And for a moment, Hamish's mind back tracks.

**Father never makes her make a deduction.**

_Father already _knows_ about her wanting to fit in. And he doesn't confront her. _

_If Father isn't confronting her about her denying her own brilliance, or at least the potential of it, then he has a plan, or he has some sort of sympathy for her._

_No. Father doesn't feel sympathy. Father expects emotions. Delete._

_If Father isn't confronting her about her denying her own brilliance, or at least the potential of it, then he has a plan__, or he has some sort of sympathy for her__ or he knows how to slowly but surely remind her of who she is._

Hamish groans._ No, that's not it. That's something Dad, or even Uncle Mycroft, would do. Not Father. _

Hamish buries his face into his pillow, frustrated. _What are you doing Father?_

* * *

Isabel tries to avoid it when she can, she really does.

Deducting isn't fun, not for her, and that's something Hamish doesn't understand. She prefers to create melodies and music that stop the creation of the analysis.

And when school comes around and she doesn't have her violin in her fingers, she replays the music in her head, or the memories of watching Father pluck a quick tune when he's irritated or stuck, or those few moments at the very beginning of the day, hours before dawn would even rise, when her Father would begin to play.

Those are her favorite moments by far.

_Hamish would groan, and shove his pillow on his head. "Stupid violin," he would mutter. "One day I will snap that bow in half and cut every string on that damned contraption."_

Of course, these memories rooted from when she was just a toddler, but the one she was remembering, though similar to almost all the others, came from a chilly November morning the day of her fifth birthday- and a time when she still called her father "Daddy".

_She heard her dad swear on the other side of the wall, from her parents' bedroom, but that was a common sound. As was Hamish's curse and vow. _

_When she was certain her brother had once again fallen asleep, or at least had drowned out all noise with analyzing or daydreams, Isabel eased her way out of her warm blanketed cocoon, and touched her feet to the cold, almost damp, wooden floors. She pulled a sweater hanging from the bed onto herself, and crossed her arms over her chest to keep the too loose sweater close to her- Father had gotten it for her when Dad made Father and herself go to get her some new clothes while Dad took care of Hamish. Father said she'd grow into it. _

_She slipped through the door, careful not to open it too wide for fear of it creaking and someone stirring, or worse- interrupting her father and stopping the beautiful music._

_The notes weaved up and down, and Isabel stepped on every other beat that so plainly laced the melody. Oh, how she dreamed that one day she could play a piece that would harmonize with her father's, that she might play _with_ him, rather than listen to him play. _

_Isabel peaked her head around the corner into living room, and stared at her father's back as his face was turned towards window. The light from the window was dull, but traced the outline of his body and highlighted the contours of his face and high cheekbones. His curly dark hair was unkempt as usual, but even more so in the early moments of day. But for once, Isabel could see signs of emotion on his face. And that was what was different from this memory then all others. _

_Her father, usually stoic and rigid, seemed peaceful, and maybe even a bit remorseful. Thoughtful and amazed. Happy and anxious. Each note brought on a new emotion, and Isabel saw past her father's mask, his façade. _

_And though she loved seeing a new side of him, she was _scared_. _

_Her father was a symbol of essential, expected pattern, and now her routine was cracked. _

_And that's what drew her to stand in front of her father. _

"_Daddy?" _

"Isabel."

The girl was snapped out of her memory as she saw her aforementioned father leaning against the doorway. She sighed at her loss of her train of thought and nodded to greet her father and returned to her daydream.

The man sat across from her and stared at the bow in her fingers. Her right hand was moving it back and forth just above the table, and her left hand sat on her knee, out of his view. But she was practicing a song in her head without the violin itself.

"What song?"

"Hmm?" Isabel's cold eyes turned back to him.

"You're miming a song." He said, and at those words, the movement stopped. "But you didn't realize that, did you?"

Isabel only shrugged. "Bad habit, I suppose," she murmured and buried her face into the crook of her elbow on the table.

A sigh announced John's entrance into the room.

"Must you two always fight when you get home?"

"'s not my fault."

"Then whose fault is it?"

"Father's"

Sherlock only looked confused. "Me?"

Isabel pulled up her head. "Yes, you. You're the one who encourages him to make all the assumptions and deductions and be so rudely blunt all the time.

Sherlock shook his head, but offered no explanation to his daughter and left the room. John took his place at the table.

"It's not your father's fault."

"Hmm. Isn't it now?"

"Even if he didn't encourage Hamish, Hamish would do so all the same- deductions are natural for him, and your father is only prodding him to make sure he makes correct ones. And it's not like your father can teach him manners anyways." John added with a wistful smile. "It took months just to get Sherlock to say 'please' and another few months to get him to say 'thank you' and even after that I was still always cuing him on when to say it."

"And how did you get him to shut up?"

John sighed again. If someone had warned him parenthood was difficult, he never would have convinced Sherlock to ask Mycroft to get them kids.

"Isabel…"

"Fine, fine. When did you get him to stop making deductions all the time?"

John only smiled again. "I didn't."

Isabel stared. "You're joking."

Her dad shook his head. "Nope. He started to figure it out about the time you two were born. He was a lot more outspoken before you came around. If something came to his mind, he would say it without restraint, unless someone stopped him or staying quiet was part of his plan."


	8. Melody

_**A/N: Just a short boring chapter. I'll give you the next one soon. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

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"_That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could determine."_

-A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

If there's anything Hamish hates even more than being bored, it's the violin.

Especially if Isabel's playing it.

When Father isn't in the house, she always plays the same melody, and it drives him insane. If the front door opens and closes, then she quickly switches to another song and all Hamish knows is that she feels guilty playing it.

He doesn't know what the song is. He doesn't know why Father isn't allowed to hear her playing it. He doesn't know the significance of the song.

And he doesn't know why it's being played on the bloody violin.

After a few minutes from the fight, her violin starts up again and just the first long note tells him he's in for a horrible hour of listening to the melody.

Unfortunately, he can't drown it out.

For all he knows, she set up some sort of speaker that he can't find that plays the song extra loud in their room so that he can't deduce, but he knows that isn't possible.

But he hates this song even more for stifling his brain.

Hamish can't figure it out.

It's just a simple song, a lullaby even, that was written by a professional and Isabel is slowly mastering it.

When his dad steps into the bedroom, they stare at each other for a few minutes, and then Hamish is nodded the excuse to leave the flat- close enough Dad can call him back to the house or Hamish can quickly sprint home, but far enough away that he can't hear the accursed music.

Once he's sitting on the curb a few buildings down the street, Hamish lets out a long breath. _She doesn't want Father to know about the song. She wants to master it. _

_2+2, Hamish. Child's play._

_It's a surprise for Father._

But he's stumped, as much as he hates to admit it. He can't answer the most important question. _Why?_


	9. Every Detective

_**A/N: St. Albans is an actual school in England. It is in Hertfordshire, and is roughly 45 minutes from London by car. I'd imagine that Lestrade would live just outside the city, around the lines of Buckland Crescent to St. Albans- 32 minutes according to Google.**_

_**Just so you know, this is my favorite chapter. You'll see why. ;)**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

* * *

"_There was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow, who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade…"_

-A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

When Hamish finally returned home after some useless thinking (which he deleted on his way home. No use in keeping the rubbish.), his father was already lounging on the couch in boredom.

Hamish walked over to the seat beside his look-alike and slumped into it.

When a knock sounded on the door a few minutes later, his father only said- with his arm over his eyes, nonetheless- "Lestrade. With child. No case." He then turned over on his side like an upset child and left Hamish to follow his dad to the door and observe the welcoming into the flat.

No wonder Father seemed so resentful to the visit.

"Ah, Greg." John welcomed with a somewhat strained smile. "What brings you to our humble flat?"

Hamish rolled his eyes. Of _course_ he didn't realize the boy behind Lestrade's legs.

Lestrade shrugged sheepishly. "I'm afraid that I need somebody to watch my son while I go out on errands. His mother's in Dublin visiting family and won't be back 'till next week, and I can't possibly ask his brothers or sisters-"

"-_half_ brothers and sisters, Dad." The boy interrupted forcefully and returned to silence.

"Ah, yes. As I was saying- and I won't leave him with the ex, either. I thought you might be able to take care of him for a few hours, John."

No, no mention of Father.

Who would?

But his dad hesitated. "I don't know. I have to go shopping myself soon, since _somebody-_" John shot a glare at Hamish "- decided to experiment on all of the eggs."

Lestrade shrugged. "If that's the only thing you need, I could pick it up for you and save you the trip- a free carton of eggs in exchange to taking care of Liam for an hour or two."

Sherlock sighed loudly, drawing all the eyes in the room to his attention. "Just bring the child in already so that Lestrade can go shopping sooner, and come back and pick up the boy."

John shook his head at the sociopath. Then smiled at the other man. "Sure, we'll take him. Liam, you said?"

Lestrade nodded as he prodded the boy into the room. "Yes- his nickname he adapted from my father's middle name. Seemed fitting at the time when we named him."

The boy snorted at swatted his father's hand away from his back and stood in front of the other boy.

Liam, though obviously older by a year or two, was only seven or so centimeters taller. Dark hair- like Lestrade's had once been when he was younger, no doubt- usually kept trim and neat but was now slightly out of control.

_So his mother usually tends to his appearance, especially his hair_ _- the messiest and most unkempt part of his appearance. He still showers, still washes, but he doesn't spend ten minutes on grooming himself to high standards, like the brand of his clothes would suggest. The state of them, not so much. The clothes haven't been ironed recently, again- his mother tends to the appearance of him, and irons and presses his clothes. He might go to a prestigious private school with the money his mother inherited- they wouldn't be able to afford the clothes and tuition on a Detective Inspector's salary, and she's not working since she's busy cleaning and washing the house. _

Hamish shut it down. Useless facts, as always. Why analyze them, when he'd just delete them later anyways?

Lestrade waved a quick good-bye, patted his son on the head and made his way out of the apartment.

John smiled almost painfully at Liam. "So, would you like some tea?"

The boy shook his head and examined the room.

John sighed and turned on the telly again.

"I suppose you won't be attending St. Albans school anymore now that your mother has left Lestrade for another man."

Silence rang throughout the room, despite the ignored chatter on the television.

Liam looked at the boy with surprise, and then anger, and then curiosity.

"What… but… she… _how_?" He stammered.

"I suppose your father will also have to move closer into London again without the flow of cash from your mother's inheritance. I wonder if you would mind living in a flat. Probably one smaller than this, since it would only be you and your father."

Sherlock lifted his head up from the couch and grinned as he watched his son surprise the boy in front of him with quick remarks, though not very impressive, much like he had with John.

The aforementioned doctor, however, was not pleased. "_Hamish_." He hissed.

The boy looked at his dad in confusion, and then looked at his father in hopes that he would tell him what he did wrong.

"No. No, it's okay Dr. Watson." Liam shook his head. "Someone would figure it out eventually, no matter how well Dad thinks he can hide it."

Hamish looked back at his dad, whose mouth was slack jawed that Liam hadn't socked Hamish for invading his privacy with his deduction. Hamish then turned back to Liam and held out his hand.

"Well, Liam- the name's Hamish Watson-Holmes." He grinned. "Pleasure to meet you."

Liam grinned back and shook his hand, then the two boys practically skipped out of the flat to go off and wreck havoc on London. Or at least, the rest of Baker Street.

John only stared, and when words no longer escaped him he whispered to no one in particular,

"Dear God, what have done?"


	10. Needs A Blogger

_**A/N: I have no idea how Twitter works. So I might have gotten some lingo wrong at the beginning. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

* * *

"_I am lost without my Boswell." _

_-_A Scandal in Bohemia by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

When the boys returned, Sherlock found them deep in conversation about how Liam already had his own Twitter account, and almost three hundred followers.

_Well, I suppose every good detective needs a blogger._

_His_ blogger, however, was nowhere to be seen, leaving Sherlock to listen in on the boys' conversation.

"So, I usually tweet every three days- keeps things consistent so I keep getting followed, and also allows for more posts for somebody to share with their friends."

"And people just follow you for talking about your life? No matter how boring it is?"

Liam rolled his eyes. "I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that insult. And yes. Most people assume that if they follow your tweets, then you'll follow theirs. Payment for fans, I suppose. Same goes for Youtube and some Facebook users. But I don't work like that. I only follow the interesting people."

"And how many of them are there?"

Liam laughed. "Before I met you guys? Maybe fifteen. Now with you guessing my life story, your dad scolding you for it, and some random person playing the violin in that room over there-" This caused Hamish to scowl. He had almost forgotten about that violin. "-I don't think I've ever seen as curious a family except on the telly!"

Suddenly the violin stopped, and the doorknob twisted. Hamish groaned, _Oh why did she have to stop her practicing now?_ _No doubt,_ Hamish assured himself,_ she'll come waltzing in here and start being all "Little Miss Perfect" to Liam, and then what rut will be in then?_

And she did just as Hamish predicted, gracefully ushered herself from the bedroom and closed the door shut behind her with a quick snap of her wrist- why she did it in this way, Hamish had no idea, but he figured it had something to do with the fact that a stranger only a year older then themselves was in the home.

Isabel's face lit up when she saw the boy. _Oh good, somebody not overly-brilliant or related to me to talk to_. At this point, she didn't care if he was dull. But talking to her parents wasn't an option (and talking to Hamish didn't even register in her head) and she _had_ to talk.

Just like she had to be normal.

The boy was cute, just as she had hoped when she heard his laugh. That was the thing that told her it was safe to come out, his laugh. It had been friendly and loud and told her the only thing she need to know: He wasn't like Hamish and Father. And that was what she feared, being friends with somebody like them.

Medium brown hair and dark green eyes. His facial features were pixie or fairy like, but boyish, though his nose was thin and sharp and didn't fit in with the rest of his features. He reminded her of Peter Pan, though more from an older cartoon rather than the newer movies.

It didn't take long for her to realize that the hair and nose would resemble Lestrade's when he was younger, and no doubt his other features came from his mother.

Dear God, that would be so creepy if she developed a crush on him and he looked _exactly_ like Lestrade.

"Hullo," she said quite cheerfully and gave a small wave, before bounding off to the kitchen.

"Um… hello?" Liam said back, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. He turned to Hamish. "Does that… happen often here?"

"What, Isabel skipping in and about the flat? No. She just wanted to see what you look like." He started to follow his sister off to the kitchen.

"Oh." Liam's cheeks flushed a light pink color. "And that's it?"

Hamish glanced back at him. "Well, _yeah_. You have sisters, right? _Half-_sisters, I know, but sisters all the same."

"Well, _yeah_." Liam mimicked, slightly annoyed. "But I don't hang out with them; I used to live with my mom, not Dad's ex-wife."

They found Isabel rummaging through the pantry, moving boxes around until she victoriously pulled out a trail mix bar. When she saw Hamish and Liam, she waved the bar in the air.

"Want one?"

Hamish shrugged. "Don't feel like eating today."

Isabel glared. "You know what Dad says about you not eating."

"Fine." He snapped and snatched the snack out of her hand. "I'll eat it then."

She snorted. "You'll just spit out whatever you eat later."

"Nobody cares as long as I don't throw it up."

Isabel rolled her eyes and pulled out two more snacks, and tossed one to Liam.

"I'm Isabel, Hamish's older sister, by the way."

Liam still looked confused. "You're older then him? By how much?"

Isabel shrugged. "Ten minutes."

This caused the boy to nod. "Ah. Twins."

Hamish rolled his eyes. "_Obviously_."

"Shut it, Hamish." The other two snapped.

"And you always hate when I complain about being ganged up against."

Isabel rolled her eyes again then turned back to Lestrade's son. "Didn't quite catch your name." The deductions were already settling back in, now that she wasn't playing her violin and she had a new person to analyze. _Most likely a family name, common among most families to inherit a father or grandfather's name- just look at Hamish. Hamish Sherlock Watson-Holmes. Lestrade's last son, but not from his first wife- he doesn't show up in the pictures of Lestrade's desk of his three children. But he's not a love child. Ah, Lestrade's new wife. How long ago did he marry her? Eight years? Ten? Hm. Either way, that marriage is undoubtly over. _

"Ah, William- but unless you're my mum, most people call me Liam."

"William Lestrade, huh?"

"How'd you know-"

"That you were Lestrade's son?" Isabel shrugged, hoping that Hamish didn't show off his abilities too much. "You look a bit like him."

Liam nodded. "And, are you like-?"

Isabel grimaced. So he _had_ shown off. _Nice going Hamish._ "No. I never have been and I never will be like Hamish, and I prefer to keep it that way."


	11. The Return

_**A/N: And our climax is close to be reached. Here comes the real plot of the story. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

* * *

Liam continued to visit the Watson-Holmes residence at least once a week for the next three years. More often than not, Liam and Hamish would venture out into London leaving Isabel at home, and would return bruised and out of breath.

On the rare occasions that this was not so, the two could be found huddled in the kitchen over cold case police reports or Hamish watching Liam typing away on his laptop.

Sometimes both.

Isabel avoided them frequently. Hamish did not want her around, and so she abided by his unspoken wishes and stayed in her room practicing on her violin.

On one such cloudy day, Hamish and Liam had collapsed in boredom on the living room floor.

"Thirty-four."

"Fifty-five."

"Eighty-nine."

"One hundred forty-four."

"Two hundred thirty-three."

"Three hundred seventy-"

Isabel popped her head out of the kitchen from where she was doing homework. "Honestly, don't you two have anything better to do? That's the third time you've restarted the Fibonacci number sequence."

Hamish and Liam lifted their heads and looked at her. Then they settled back down.

"Three hundred seventy seven."

"Six hundred ten."

"Nine hundred eighty seven."

"Um… one thousand six hundred eighty seven."

"No, it's one thousand five hundred ninety seven."

"Are you sure? What were the two numbers before it?"

"Six hundred ten and nine hundred eighty seven."

This led to a pause.

"Start over." Liam said with a sigh.

"Zero."

"One."

"One."

"Two-"

"JOHN!"

Hamish and Liam jumped to their feet with a start.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock rushed into the room with a copy of the news in hand.

John peeked his head out from the bedroom and bit back a smile at his husband's fuming. "Problem, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared. "Yes, there's a problem," He snapped, and thrust the newspaper into John's hands. "Here."

The ex-army doctor read the headline of the front cover, and groaned.

"What is it, Dad?" Hamish asked from the floor. "Another unsolved case?"

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Father would be excited if there was a new case, Hamish."

Sherlock glanced back at his children. John looked up from the article. "Ah, interest in the deer-stalker hat has seemed to have gone up."

"What was the catalyst for that?" Isabel asked.

John was silent for a short while, and then handed Isabel the paper.

When she read it, she grimaced at the paper and soon flipped the pages to find where it continued.

"What is it?" Liam asked, rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up.

No one answered him.

After a short while, Isabel crumpled the paper angrily and threw it in the general direction of the wastebasket, leaving Hamish and Liam to scramble for it as she stormed off to her room.

Upon retrieving, unfolding, and smoothing out the newspaper, they found a large, bold headline brandished across the top:

**INFAMOUS KILLER RETURNED?**

**Has James Moriarty, consulting criminal allegedly claimed dead from the notorious Sherlock Holmes, returned from the dead to wreck havoc on his enemies?**

****Two pictures were featured below the headline: the picture of Sherlock in the deer-stalker hat, as well as a picture of a dead body- dressed in the same manner as Sherlock was- hat, coat, scarf, and all.

"What stupidity is this?" Hamish demanded. "'allegedly claimed dead from the _notorious_ Sherlock Holmes'?"

"James Moriarty?" Liam asked, pulling the newspaper from his friend's hands. "As in the guy that framed your dad as a fraud?"

John nodded. "Sherlock's reputation has been fragile since, and much doubt remains since he returned."

Sherlock scoffed. "What does it matter what my reputation is as long as that I keep getting cases?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Why do they think it's Moriarty?"

Sherlock pointed at a lower paragraph in the article. "A note was left at the scene of the crime signed '_-JM_'. They jumped to conclusions and assumed that it was either me or Moriarty."

"But, he can't be back from the dead, can he?"

Sherlock glowered. "Well it certainly isn't a copy-cat."

John shook his head. "Somebody wanted people to believe it was Moriarty, even though he never committed a crime himself- save for killing Carl Powers and pulling of the whole Bank of England and Crown Jewels heist."

Hamish grimaced. "And they're putting the spotlight back on Father."


	12. Memory

_**A/N: I wanted to explain how it's possible for Hamish and Isabel to be Sherlock **_**and**_** John's. Also wanted to throw in… well, those are spoilers. You'll have to read to find out. **_

_**Just to make things clear, **_THE FIRST SENTENCE TAKES PLACE FOUR YEARS BEFORE THE PROLOGUE, _**or a year after the first chapter. The italics, and **__THE EVENTS FOLLOWING ARE ABOUT ELEVEN YEARS BEFORE THEH PROLOGUE__**. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners. **_

* * *

_"It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."_

___-_A Scandal in Bohemia by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

_*FOUR YEARS PRIOR TO PROLOGUE* _

John still remembered the day he told Sherlock he wanted kids.

*flashback*

_John wrapped his arms around his consulting detective from behind. The aforementioned detective was concentrating in his statue-like posture with his hands pressed underneath his chin in an almost prayer-like pose. _

"_John." Sherlock sighed. John only bothered him when he was in his mind palace if John wanted something really badly. _

"_Sherlock." John buried his face into the other man's curls. _

"_No."_

"_I didn't say anything."_

"_But you want something, and if you say that you want a dog again, I can assure you-"_

"_No, Sherlock, I don't want a dog."_

_A silence slipped through the air. _

"_Sherlock, have you ever thought about what your kids would-"_

_John was stopped by his husband pulling himself out of John's arms and walking away. In his confusion, John followed after. _

"_Kids, John? Children, running about Baker Street while I'm solving murder cases? No, John. I will not have it."_

"_But Sherlock-"_

"_No."_

"_But Mycroft said-" _

_Sherlock rounded on John. "Mycroft? What does he have to do with this?"_

"_Well, Mycroft explained how it would be possible for us to have children."_

_Sherlock scoffed. "A surrogate mother would carry-"_

"_No, Sherlock. Well, yes, there would be a surrogate mother, but the child would be both of ours." When Sherlock did not say anything, John carried on. "Each of our DNA would be combined in the same way that it normally would be in conception- the chromosomes would cross over and mix and go through all sorts of processes to make the DNA compatible together. _

"_Then, a surrogate provides a fertilized egg. The egg's DNA is removed and ours replaces it. The surrogate carries the child. But it's ours in the end. _Our_ DNA, _our_ child." _

_Sherlock did not respond. It was only understandable John had gotten it into his head that he needed to have a child- he was reaching a physical peak in his life and he wouldn't be able to continue keeping up at cases. _

_And he wanted to be a father. _

_As if that could replace the feeling of running around after criminals. _

_But John _could_ be a good father. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if he was the best father in England. But a child being raised by two fathers, one of them a highly-functioning sociopath consulting detective? _

_The idea sunk into his mind of a little boy running around the flat looking just like John._

_Maybe it wouldn't be _too_ bad._

After weeks of wheedling and constantly having Sherlock helping him babysit coworker's children, John was finally able to convince Sherlock to having a child.

Mycroft, of course, had been difficult at first. He was adamant that he had to screen every single woman who wanted to carry a child as a surrogate. Then, when he revealed to them that the child of the very tall, very good-looking consulting detective would not be theirs, they would decline.

Sherlock, who was still not very keen on the idea still, was irritated after the first month of no successful hunt for a woman to carry the child.

"_John, it's pointless. Nobody will carry a child that isn't theirs, even if they won't love it and care for it. It's a burden they don't want."_

"_It can't be that hard to find a woman to carry a child. It's not bad pay either. Mycroft is providing funding for all of the appointments and all the medical bills and the woman will get paid ten thousand pounds." _

_Sherlock was silent, and then dug his phone out of his pocket and began a text. _

"_You're not texting Lestrade for a case, are you?"_

"_No. I'm calling a favor." _

Four weeks, and Sherlock received no reply to the text he sent, and he refused to tell John what favor he had called in.

Then, Sherlock received a phone call.

_John was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper, while Sherlock sat watching the telly, when the phone sitting on Sherlock's knee rang. _

_John jumped. Who in England _called_ Sherlock Holmes? He texted, or you sent him an email, or you came to him in person. Surely Sherlock would just ignore it. _

_But Sherlock pulled himself out of an apparent trance and grabbed the phone blindly and answered it. _

"_I was beginning to think you would never call." Sherlock's voice was sarcastic. "It did take you longer than I expected."_

_There was silence for a few minutes, of which most of the time Sherlock grimaced. _

"_You know the address. If you want the job, you can be here in an hour." _

_And he ended the call and wrote a text._

Sixty-five minutes after Sherlock's call, Mycroft showed up at their door.

"She said she'd do it?" Those were the first words out of his mouth. No greeting or teasing remark about John or Sherlock.

"Hello, brother dear. I trust the government can manage forty minutes without you mothering it?"

"Nonsense, I have Anthea managing all of my calls until I get back." Mycroft stared pointedly at Sherlock, who stood and picked up his violin.

"She didn't agree to anything. She just said that she would be very pleased to discuss it with me." He moved the bow across the violin and double checked it's tuning.

"She said she was '_pleased_' to discuss it with you?"

He scoffed. "That was quite the word she used. And she was a bit more _implying _when we talked." Sherlock drew the bow in a screeching sound across the instrument, sharp and angry. "She wanted to negotiate over _dinner_, no less."

John was a bit fed up with being left in the dark. "Who is this woman you're talking about?"

"He's talking about me, of course."


	13. Terms

_**A/N: Sorry I didn't update. Lost track of time. And yes, I ship Mystrade. I love to hint at it. **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the works of the show, the movies, or the books of the Sherlock Homes series'. All rights belong to their respected owners.**_

* * *

Immediately, John's face turned from surprise to hate.

"Irene."

The mentioned woman smiled flirtatiously and gave a small wave with a delicate, manicured hand.

"Hello, John. I suppose you finally admitted you were gay, then."

"Bisexual."

The Woman rolled her eyes and turned towards Sherlock.

"Hello, Sherlock, dear."

"Irene." John could see him swallow heavily and fight back a grimace. "You understand the terms of the job we'd give you?"

Irene smiled. "Carry a child that's not mine for a hefty sum? Seems fairly simple. Not quite sure I like the idea of childbirth, but I can't be a dominatrix for more than a year or two more."

Sherlock glared, and then he nodded. "I suppose that biological clock is ticking, isn't it? It must be dreadful having a husband that doesn't want to have children."

John suppressed a cough at the irony.

Irene's eyes narrowed. "I won't bother to ask how you came about finding that out. But since I'm here and ready to accept the bargain, it won't hurt to negotiate a few more terms."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I might remind you, Irene, that you don't have much negotiating room here. You owe me a favor, as well as that we're providing pay for the medical bills as well as profit. What could you possibly decide you want more than that?"

Irene smiled lightly. "Nothing too grandeur, I assure you. Or costly even. I simply want to see you and lover-boy work a case. I do admit that I'm quite curious to see you in action- at least when I'm not on the receiving end of your hunt."

John choked down a growl. Now the woman wanted to intrude on the cases.

"Block that jealousy, John." Sherlock commanded without looking at John. He returned his attention to Irene. "I'm sure that can be arranged with Scotland Yard." Sherlock glanced at his brother. "I'm sure you can bring up the matter with Detective Lestrade, brother?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "The next time I see him, of course."

_Would that happen to be at dinner? _Thought John, and could almost hear a Sherlock-sounding snicker in his head to accompany the thought.

"Wonderful. I'm sure Mycroft can provide you with any necessary paperwork for the procedure, and whenever a case should arise, and you can accompany us at the crime scene. Thank you Miss Adler- or have you changed your last name with your martial status?- that will be all."

With that (and possibly a slightly obscene and ridiculous flourish), Sherlock rose from his chair and departed to his room.

Irene stood as well, nodded at John and Mycroft and gave a wave over her shoulder as she collected her purse and coat, and removed herself from Baker Street for a long, long time.


End file.
